


עם יד על הלב

by sexyspork



Series: for in every language, you are mine [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Clint Needs a Hug, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, bondage technically, but not for fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4150632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexyspork/pseuds/sexyspork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous: <a href="http://norsekink.livejournal.com/3231.html?thread=7360671#t7360671">Coulson/Hawkeye, slave!fic</a></p>
<p>
  <i>It doesn't matter how you do it: I just want to see Coulson owning Clint. Somehow-happy ending would be loved, but do what you like!</i>
</p>
<p>AKA the rather infamous Clint/Coulson & Fury/Natasha slavery-verse from norsekink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	עם יד על הלב

**Author's Note:**

  * For [windsweptfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/gifts).



> Slowly moving my stuff from LJ to AO3. And because this was written prior to the first Avengers, it's not compliant with anything in MCU. ~~Sorry not sorry.~~ Originally published: September 15th, 2011
> 
> \----
> 
> This is for revenant_oozi, who was having a bad day at work and gave me this prompt (so sorry it's so late *hugs*) and for my dearest lady529, who has a hand and belly kink and wanted something with hands, and when she speaks, I obey, lol. Here you go, my lovelies!

The thing about Clint's legendary focus, is that there are drawbacks that nobody talks about ( _or knows about, really_ ). Every once in a while, a pressure will begin to build behind his eyes and Clint knows what that means. So he'll make a beeline for Coulson's office, the one place he knows he can retreat to and not be bothered. Because migraines were a bitch and half to deal with normally, especially if one has been trained to be almost hyper-aware with a keen sense of observation thrown in for good measure.  
  
By the time he reaches the office, Clint's rubbing his eyes and grimacing as the afternoon sun pierces through his skull with the efficiency of a lance. Pulse throbbing in his ears, he doesn't say a word to Coulson as he opens the door, stepping towards the desk and the thick cushion that Coulson always keeps near his chair.  
  
He doesn't kneel, because he never kneels, and he knows Coulson would shoot first and check second to see if he was a Skrull if he ever did so. So he sits down heavily, limbs not quite reacting to his mental orders, and lays the back of his head on the side of Coulson's thigh.  
  
The first gentle touch to his temple relaxes Clint to a point, but the spikes of agony are still there, so all Clint can do is wait it out. He can hear Coulson rifling through a drawer and he can't stop his fervent, "Oh thank God."  
  
A low chuckle of amusement is all he is answered with when the world goes black as Coulson ties the blindfold around his head. It blocks out every scrap of light, leaving Clint in blessed darkness, already muting some of the pain as the migraine grows to encompass all of his senses. Coulson tied it a tad too tight, not enough to cut off blood flow, but enough so that there is something for Clint to focus on other than the blitz taking place in his head.  
  
"Good?" Coulson asks quietly and Clint humms in agreement as he settles down to weather through the pain. Coulson smooths his palm over Clint's neck in response, fingers toying with the fringe of hair on his nape, even as Clint hears the scritching of a pen on paper as his handler continues to work.  
  
By God, did Clint ever love Coulson's hands. Broad palms with long fingers that had no problem holding Clint down if he so chose, and the same hands that he'd seen kill with ruthless efficiency were currently stroking his head much in the fashion a falconer does to soothe the feathers of his hawk.  
  
Tilting his head back, Clint rumbles his relief as Coulson ran his fingers along the curve of his jaw to stroke his throat, a blunt thumb rubbing circles near his Adam's apple. With anyone else, he would have felt alarm at palm grazing the vulnerable flesh of his neck, but never with Coulson. He's been nothing but safe with Coulson since he was 17, so Clint allows him to do as he wishes, his focus shifting from the pain to points of contact.  
  
Time is meaningless as the calloused fingers trace the arteries in his neck almost absentmindedly, and Clint is brought back to awareness hours later when Coulson removes his hand.  
  
"Phil?" He groans, voice rough and he could really use a drink to parch the dryness of his throat. Shifting slightly as he feels a tug on the blindfold, he takes stock of the migraine. The pain is still there, but more towards the low-level-headache end of the spectrum rather than completely-incapacitated. With a whisper of fabric on skin, the blindfold is removed and so Clint tilts his head back to look at Coulson.  
  
The lights are on so low that he can only make out a vague outline of his handler, but by the slope of his shoulders, Clint can tell the other man is pleased. Climbing stiffly to his feet, stretching to get the worst of the kinks out of his back, he then slides into Coulson's lap, legs over the hips to straddle the older man.  
  
Tucking his head in the crook of Coulson's neck, the archer's entire body goes limp with pleasure when a hand trailed down the length of his spine, nails catching in the soft cotton of Clint's tee.  
  
"Better?" Coulson finally asks, and Clint nods, because everything is always better when he's able to use his handler as his own personal pillow.  
  
"Your _head_ , Clint." The agent enunciates with fond exasperation, and Clint grins against the skin of Coulson's neck before his tongue darts out to catch a taste of his favorite flavor; sweat, aftershave, musk, and the underlying hint that was all Phil Coulson.  
  
"It's okay. No whiskey shots for me and Tasha for a while, though." Clint finally mutters, fingers toying with the end of Coulson's tie.  
  
"Well, that will be a relief; you both get maudlin when you drink whiskey." Coulson deadpans, the dry humor evident as his bats Clint's hand away.  
  
"Only on the cheap stuff, Phil." Clint says with a smirk, not bothering to explain that cheap whiskey was associated with his time with the mercenary bands he had been sold to after the circus. He distinctly remembers the smell rotting on their breath as they had shouted orders in his face, and that is a portion of his life he would rather forget, thank-you-very-much. Plus, it's not like Coulson doesn't already know that, anyways.  
  
Sighing in contentment as Coulson's skillful fingers trace marks on the skin of his lower back that isn't covered by his jeans or shirt, Clint closes his eyes as he reassures, "I'm good."  
  
Because he's with his handler, the one man he loves more than anything, and so how could he be anything but?

**Author's Note:**

> God damn tenses! *flips table*


End file.
